


Green With Envy (And Luck Too)

by moon_opals



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, Jealousy, M/M, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-01-03 06:30:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21174962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moon_opals/pseuds/moon_opals
Summary: When the World's Luckiest Gander meets The World's Strongest Stork, sparks fly...right onto Donald's houseboat.Love and hate may share a thin line, but nothing says 'I love you' like pretending to date your long standing crush's long loathed lucky cousin.Gladstone meets Storkules.Chaos ensues.





	1. When Gladdy Met Storkules

**Author's Note:**

  * For [neopuff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/neopuff/gifts).

It was midmorning.

A perfect time to drink.

Gladstone lounged under a pleasant veranda on the east side of town. It was humid, not hot, and suited his preferences.

“Tequila sunrise,” he exhaled. He pulled out the cherry and slid it off the extended pick, plopping it in his mouth. “Mama’s favorite,” he chewed.

It was not. Daphne Duck was a Caribbean Sunrise woman, but she would never want anyone to know that. Not that the waiter knew who Daphne Duck was.

He glanced at his waiter, feeling oddly generous. “You want a sip,” he offered the glass. “Keeps thirst at bay.”

The waiter - a large, muscular fellow declined politely. “Your generosity is most welcome, good sir,” he bellowed. “Alas, it would be against our rules, and also,” he said softly, “it’s ten in the morning.”

Gladstone gawked at the waiter. “A morning drink puts a pep in my step,” he tipped the glass, wiggling his eyebrows. His jovial mood was consequential. “And besides,” he added, reclining his chair and propping his feet on the bench, “it’s such a lovely morning. A crying shame to have to spend it all alone.”

“All alone?” Gladstone’s waiter tilted his head inquisitively. “Good customer, pardon my intrusion, but are you pining for a beloved?”

He was in the middle of consuming his tequila, and nearly spat it out in shock, stomach rumbling at the sudden heave. Instead, he swallowed the portion quickly and grabbed a napkin. “Oh no, no, my friend,” he wiped his beak. “Well, not exactly, I think...it’s what she wants. No labels. Which is fine with me, who needs labels anyway." He looked aside, gritting his teeth. "A little weird she won't accept FWB either," he mumbled.

"FWB?"

He returned to the waiter. "Friends with benefits," he answered, sizing the man. "Never heard of it?"

His waiter cast his gaze down, eyelids hooded, and the abrupt change stirred something in Gladstone’s chest. He doubted it was heartburn, though it would’ve explained his indigestion. He knew it wasn’t the Southern Style breakfast. He set his glass on the table and folded his hands together, propping his elbows on the table. “Sounds like you’re having a tough time, my friend, please, take a seat.”

His waiter shook his head feverishly, eyes growing wide. “I could not do that sir,” he panicked. “Ms. Cluck would be most displeased with me.”

Gladstone frowned, cocking an eyebrow. He leaned back and searched for the boss in question and found her inside through the screen door. She was at the register, counting down and saw him waving. It didn’t take much. He gestured to the waiter, then to himself, made an okay sign, and knew he’d gotten what he wanted when she rolled her eyes and bawked tiredly.

“See?” He motioned to her, “She doesn’t mind. It’s a slow morning.” He gestured to the chair, “Come on, tell me your sad story.”

The waiter’s uncertainty was tangible. He found Ms. Cluck and pointed to Gladstone. She nodded and waved him off. Wow. Today was slow.

Slowly, carefully, he pulled back a chair and sat, wincing at its sharp creak. “Um...how do you do?”

“Lucky, but what about you?”

“Me?”

“Yes, you,” Gladstone emphasized. He leaned across the table, expression speculative. “You’re a tall, muscular, big guy - fantastic cook, who wouldn’t want you?”

“As a friend?”

“Friend, friends with benefits, partner, boyfriend,” he could’ve gone on and on. So many labels to use, none of which she wanted to use for them, but this wasn’t the time to deliberate. “You’re handsome. Who wouldn’t want to be your friend?”

His waiter closed his eyes, and when he breathed, the entire veranda quaked. “I don’t think I’d be a beneficial friend. He says we’re friends, but I don’t think he means it.”

Gladstone scoffed, unamused. “Kid, if what he says ain’t truth, you shouldn’t worry about him.”

At that - well, his waiter drew bold. “I always worry for him,” he clasped his hands together. “He’s brave and compassionate and relentless and determined,” his tone grew feverish, rising to a new level with every word. “He’d do anything for his family and loved ones.”

“So what?” He sliced a small portion of his remaining porkchop. “You’re not his family? He doesn’t love you, even as a friend?”

Instantly, he regretted his question. Tears flooded the man's eyes but did not fall. He lowered his head, beak almost touching the table. “I don’t know,” he whispered, dejected. “I used to be so certain, but everything is far more difficult than it used to be.”

Now, Gladstone was not the most compassionate or empathetic or considerate or a lot of things, actually. Too many list. But he liked this guy - his waiter, who’s good cheer and clumsiness was endearing in its own way. He was one of the better waiters/cooks, and his moussaka was to die for.

So yes, maybe Gladstone Gander - luckiest gander alive - was a deadbeat, or a charlatan. They wouldn’t be wrong. Yet, no one could say he was heartless, and seeing this man - a good man at that, on the verge of tears stirred him in ways he didn’t anticipate.

“Okay, buddy,” he sighed, slapping his arm on the table. “Alright, don’t blubber down. We gotta figure this out. Let me help?”

His waiter wiped his eyes, sniffling. “But how,” he bemoaned. “I have not seen him since the Moonvasion more than a month ago. My sister says I should give him space, but I know she’s reunited with Della. They've spent a lot of time together at the mansion.”

“Wait,” Gladstone said. He looked to the left, then right, and pulled back, unsure he heard correctly. “You said Della? As in Della Duck?”

“Yes,” he swallowed, pushing back tears. “Della and Donald often visited Ithaquack with Scrooge in the past. I...I did not know why they stopped coming, or that even dear Della was missing. And with my sister -,”

“So, we’re talking about Donald,” he interjected. “Clarify that for me, your friend is Donald F. Duck?”

“Yes.”

“And...Donald is the best friend who does not appreciate you?”

“I wouldn’t say he doesn’t appreciate me. It’s just that he doesn’t know…,” he paused, inhaling deeply, “how much he hurts me.”

For a man so big, he seemed so small.

Gladstone fell back, confused, and a little irritated. No. He was a lot irritated. He’d heard that voice before - distant and disheartened, yet strangely optimistic. Someday, he said Gladstone. Someday, he’ll answer my calls.

Donald never did, of course. But that wasn’t the point.

“Alright, Storkules,” Gladstone inhaled. “This is what we’re going to do.”

“What?”

He heard his apprehension. “Look,” he continued, reassuringly persuasive. “Donny’s got a hard head, literally. We’ll need to figure out a way to get his attention, to make him realize how much of a jackass he’s being.”

“Well, jackarse,” Storkules struggled, “is a bit of an exaggeration. Donald is a noble man with noble intentions.”

Gladstone noted the warning in his tone and wiped his forehead. “Of course,” he softened. “Donald’s a great guy. The best of the best. But he’s still a jackass. So, stick with me, and we’ll help him realize that you deserve better. And you can do better than him.”

Storkules ran circles on the table, glancing nervously at Gladstone. “Well, we know I can’t -,”

“Has not been confirmed.”

“So what do I do?”

Good question. All great plans needed a starting point, no matter his blessed luck. Gladstone thought harder than he ever thought before. “Hmm...devious and crafty,” he mumbled quietly. “Someone who’s both and doesn’t mind stepping on anyone’s toes.” It struck him like summer rain, sudden and unannounced. He was soaked.

He snapped his fingers, eyes bright. “I know exactly who,” he whispered. His grinned slyly, staring at his waiter. “Storkules, you’re going to love her.”

“I will?”

“Oh, yes.”

*****

“No.”

“But Linda -,”

She wasn't in a position to look at him. Literally. She was curved at an almost impossible angle in her over-sized lounge chair, stuffed in a sleeping bag. She wore a sleeping mask. “I am taking my early morning, soon to be afternoon nap,” she groaned, rolling on her side. “Ask my assistant.”

Gladstone and Storkules looked to their right where the woman was. She was hunched over a smaller desk, fixated on a Bell laptop. Sensing their gazes, she threw a tired glance over. “I’m not her assistant,” she said dryly. “And hi Gladdy, hi Storkules.”

They waved.

“Opal Prudence McDuck,” Storkules praised. “Pray tell, what business do you have here in Dawson?”

She winced like a lemon was unexpectedly shoved into her mouth, but forced a smile for the god's benefit. "Please, don't use my full name," she sighed, stroking her temples. "Long version or abridged?"

"We're kinda on borrowed time," Gladstone snipped.

She glared at him, ready to snap, but steadied her annoyance by returning to her screen. "Abridged version it is. Mom didn't want to pay Dad for his IT firm services," she pointed to her head, "so I was sent down here instead, at a discount." The reminder sent her into a flurry of clicks, as if the sounds were sufficient at drowning out their voices.

“Well, weren’t you working with what was it N.E.S.T?"

"C.L.U.T.C.H.," she glowered. "And you aren't supposed to know that." She quickened her typing. “And I had one year left until qualifying for Public Service Loan Forgiveness,” she grumbled.

“Right,” Gladstone flickered back to Linda. “Now, Linda -,”

“I said I was sleeping,” she rolled on her other side. She was bundled like a cocooned caterpillar, unwilling to free itself from its chrysalis. “Go away.”

Normally, her rejection was enough to push him away - if temporarily, but not this time. Gladstone crossed his arms and tilted his head back. “You agree to help,” he said calmly, “and I’ll think about it.”

“Eugh.” She cracked open an eye. “Whatever, what’s the story?”

“Right, well, uh…,” he paused. It wasn’t that he didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know how to say it. The plan was just an idea and a simple one at that. “Y’see,” he scratched his neck nervously, “well, Storkules and I and Donald and...man, it sounded way cooler a few seconds ago.”

Linda groaned. Opal, behind her screen, shook her head.

“Get out,” she said. She flipped her mask above her left eye. “Now,” she breathed.

Gladstone did get up, head hanging dejectedly, and he planned to leave. Not even the twenty dollars near his feet soothed his disappointment, though he did slip it into his wallet. Storkules followed suit, but raised his head at the last moment.

“Ms. Paper is it?”

“Eugh, he’s still talking.”

“I know it may sound unorthodox, but Gladstone Gander is a generous soul and only sought to help me with my failings of impressing my dearest not-friend, Donald Duck.”

At that - Opal peeked over her screen. Linda rustled, but did not remove her mask.

“Donald,” she asked. “What’s wrong with Donald?”

“Nothing is wrong, fair Opal,” Storkules smiled sadly. “I have wanted so very long to impress him, to earn his respect, but it feels all I have accomplished is earning his scorn. I may be the Lion of Olympus, but that means nothing, empty even, when compared to being someone Donald respects and loves.”

Gladstone stared up at the man of a god with watery eyes.s What passion...what earnestness...the sound of it led a man to tears, and soon, he felt tears sliding down his cheeks. He wiped them quickly, drying the rest when he heard a sniffle. He followed the sound and squinted at the desk.

“Linda?” He stepped forward. “Are you okay?”

She was bundled perfectly in her sleeping bag, but her sleep mask couldn't hide her tears. “Yes, yes,” she hiccuped. She didn’t try to wipe her tears away, and she didn’t try to pretend she’d caught something in her eye - she did complain about her contacts though. The frog in her throat was due to her suppression attempts. “It’s just...he’s so...earnest, and you,” she sat up, scooting on the chair for balance, “Storkules, do you really feel this way for Donald?”

He stared into her eyes. “Yes,” he confessed. “I’ve never felt this way for anyone like this in my life.”

Linda sobbed. She wiggled a hand to her mouth and started to fan herself. “Shit, my mascara’s running,” she spun to Opal, “assistant, can you get me some Kleenex.”

Opal snapped the laptop closed. “I am not your assistant.”

“Secretary, assistant, IT Lady, I don’t care,” Linda cried. “We need to get this god his man.”

“What do you mean we?”

Linda paused, “I mean you and him and him and myself.” She sucked in her breath and returned to them. “Don’t worry, Storkules. I’ll figure something out. I didn’t spend four and a half years just to graduate with a bachelor’s in Philosophy.

“I thought you majored in Philosophy because you didn’t know what to do with your life.”

“Opal, shut the fu -,” she stopped mid sentence and composed herself. Removing her mask, Gladstone tried not to wince. Her mascara had run and were now inky streaks starting from her eyes and stopping somewhere under her jaw. “Look, it’s all about emotions and personal beliefs. We’ll sweat the light stuff and figure something out.”

Gladstone and Storkules shared a glance, then smiled.

“So, you’ll -,”

“Yerp.”

“And you’ll -,”

“Yerp.”

Storkules couldn’t contain his joy. He jumped happily, dropping down on the floor lightly. What was light for him was heavy for everything else. The hotel shook. Tremors cracked like vines, uprooting the floors above. Centering around the pendant light fixture, it all came crashing down on Linda’s desk. Gladstone jumped on Storkules. Opal scrutinized, silently returning to her laptop. Linda screamed, scrambling back into the chair that soon fell backwards with her in it.

Still holding Gladstone in his arms, Storkules surveyed the gaping hole in the ceiling and blinked back to the damage below.

“Don’t worry.” Opal clicked, typed, and clicked some more. “Goldie won’t notice.”


	2. The Classic Cliche

Gladstone and Storkules - once the repairmen arrived - were directed to the Blackjack Hotel's (Dawson Branch) single conference room. He counted seventeen visits, and not once during the seventeen did he notice the facility. Linda shrugged, confirming his ignorance was not surprising.

“You didn’t come for any professional business,” she wiggled the key into the lock, “and no one has used this room since the Klondike days when Goldie was a dancehall girl. It was their dressing room." The door groaned when she pushed, pressing her back to keep it open for the others to enter. “Conferences rooms are reserved for the metropolitan branches. Dawson is a pit stop.”

Orange blossom tickled their noses, and they walked to the end of the room where a giant projector and laptop was set up.

Storkules took a seat, more excited than confused. Gladstone found a seat next to him, wishing he had a drink or appetizer, something to pass the time as Linda prepared her presentation.

She glanced at the seated men. “Goldie doesn’t update her systems. I brought my PacBook,” she explained. It took only a few moments for the connection to click, and on the screen went. She stepped back and gestured to Opal.

“Alright,” she stood.

“Wait, where did you come from?” Gladstone looked over his shoulder. He looked left and right. He didn’t see a way for her to enter without them noticing.

Opal didn’t answer him, procuring a black remote. “How did you get to Dawson in less than a day,” she asked in reply.

“It’s actually a short story,” Gladstone chuckled. He popped his collar and leaned back in the chair comfortably. “We were waiting in the airport for our flight when an old friend of Storkules happened to be there.”

“An old friend?”

“He means Eshu,” Storkules elaborated. “He is an old and dear friend of mine.”

Linda drummed her fingers on her mousepad. “Eshu,” she repeated uncertainly, “you don’t mean the Eshu? What was he doing there?”

Gladstone would've claimed had he known the person's name, but Linda's interest and Storkules' joy at reciting the tale was more than a gander could endure in one seating. "Eshu was visiting Greece for vacation, but he hadn’t gone alone. A small spider was on his shoulder."

“A small spider?” Linda nearly squeaked. “Did the spider talk? What did he have to say?”

“Oh, he?” Storkules roared with laughter, “Anansi was more concerned with luggage. At the end of the day, Eshu used the old fashion way to get here.”

For the first time since Gladstone had known her - the second odd occurrence of that day - Linda was impressed. “It’s convenient they happened to be there," she said warily, facing Gladstone.

“Convenient is sugar coating it.” Gladstone chuckled knowingly. “My luck is always on point.”

Linda groaned. Opal rolled her eyes, clicking the first slide. “Is everyone ready?”

“Yes!”

Linda stayed near the laptop, explaining she was not a public speaker despite minoring in Communications, a far more beneficial major than Philosophy - Opal added.

“You know what Donald likes and dislikes." She started on the first, slide, minimalist designed. "This is essential our plan's success."

“To Earn the Bad Luck Duck’s Respect,” Opal read aloud, glaring at Linda.

She glared back. "It's an apporptiately named title," she stressed, "and a perfect start. What else does he like?"

“That’s more of a fact of life than a character trait.”

Storkules raised his hand, gripping his upper arm as he reached to the sky in hopes of getting their attention.

“Storkules, you don’t have to do that,” Opal pointed out, “this is an open discussion. No suggestion is a bad one.”

Gladstone raised his.

“Except yours,” Opal said.

He huffed, crossing his arms dejectedly.

“Okay, he has bad luck, is devoted to his family,” Linda typed. “Anything else?”

“His temper is notorious.”

“He’s the most handsome man to walk this glorious Earth.”

“He’s thoughtful.” Opal dug into her pocket and showed a fox eared keychain. “He bought this for me when I lost my favorite keychain. He’s a good guy.”

“He’s courageous and bold and loving and,” and on and on they went, tit for tat.

Gladstone zoned in and out of the discussion. He didn’t mind the constant praise. His cousin was a good guy after all, but seventeen minutes was a little excessive. Worse, their discussion hadn’t progressed any closer to a solution. No plans were settled. No ideas were cemented. They were right where they started, nowhere.

Had he been perfect, they wouldn’t be here. Had Storkules possessed a little bit more luck in romance they’d be living their lives as they were.

Gladstone froze. It clicked like a cash register opening to receive a twenty dollar bill, which he found at his feet when he glanced down.

He folded it neatly, never taking his eyes off it. “He has bad luck,” he whispered. “He has bad luck.”

It clicked. It made all the sense in the world, and that was what they needed to do.

“He has bad luck,” Gladstone repeated loudly. “He has bad luck.”

Opal was unamused and scowled. “Yes, Gladstone, we know Donald's luck is extraordinarily unlucky,”’she crossed her arms. “You don’t need to shove it in our faces. Bad luck. Good luck.”

“Yes, I do not think that is kind, good Gladstone. Luck is not everything.”

“No, Storkules,” Gladstone stumbled. “I don’t mean it like that. Well, I do, but not this time.”

Linda scrutinized Gladstone and walked across the stage, eyes bright with understanding. “I get it,” she said softly, “Donald has bad luck.”

“Linda,” Opal warned, “that’s enough.”

“No, you don’t understand,” she snapped her fingers. “Donald hates Gladstone’s luck. Totally valid too. I hate it too, but that is our key.”

Opal and Storkules blinked from Linda to Gladstone, more than confused. What Gladstone saw in her face was an epiphany, and he smirked.

“Love is simply the name for the desire and pursuit of the whole,” she quoted, walking into the stage. She waved a finger in the air while her other arm graced her back. “Donald’s jealousy is perfect for us.”

Their silence was deafening. Rather than getting annoyed, Linda grinned. “It’s one of the oldest romantic tropes in existence,” she explained, giddy overwhelming her. “And we are going to reel Donald in with it.”

Opal and Storkules blinked. Gladstone reclined in the chair, folding his hands behind his head.

“Fake dating,” he said. The other two looked to him as Linda squealed in delight. “Storkules and I pretend to date. Donald gets insanely jealous. Boom, reveals his long suppressed emotions for Storkules.”

Linda clicked her tongue and thumbed up Gladstone. “See? It always works out.”

“What if those two fall for each other,” Opal challenged. She studied Linda sharply, brow needled. “What are you going to do then?”

“Uh, trust me,” Gladstone started, “that isn’t going to -,”

“Donald is going to miss out on a tasty snack and a darling boyfriend,” Linda concluded. “All we need to do is show off their happy, loving relationship around Donald. He’ll lose his mind with jealousy and boom, romance sealed.”

“It’ll work only if my Donald reciprocates my affections,” Storkules pointed out. He looked sadly at his feet. “He cares for me, I believe. If not for him I would not have my home or my jobs. I dare not venture to dream his feelings run as deeply as mine.”

The other three stared awkwardly, unable to say anything close to being as eloquent. Linda massaged her temples. “It doesn’t have to be romantic,” she exhaled. “It can be just friends. Would you be happy with friends?”

Storkules smiled sadly. When he curled his hands together in silent praise, their hearts fluttered. “I am happy to have him in my life and for me to be in his. Even though our feelings differ, my love for him will not.”

“You’re making it very difficult to keep it platonic,” Gladstone sighed. “Who’s up for fake dating?”

“I am.”

“Me too.”

Linda smirked. “Oh, really, Opal? Change of heart?”

The dour woman glared but did not take the bait. “Donald is stubborn,” she answered plainly. “I love him, but he's set in his ways. A heavy hand is necessary."

“And romance,” Linda teased further. “Is friendship not serious?” The smile on her face was too gleeful to be taken seriously. Opal looked away and glared at Gladstone and Storkules.

“We’re going to need a reason for Donald to see you, a practical reason,” she stressed. “You can’t just flaunt your made up love in front of him.”

“Don’t worry, Opal,”’Gladstone reassured. “I’m sure we’ll figure out a way.” At that moment his phone dinged. All their phones dinged, except for Linda’s that went straight to ringing. Each read the message, but Opal read it aloud.

“A family dinner at Scrooge’s,” Opal read. “Significant others are welcomed.” She pulled back, as if unable to process what she had read. “I can’t believe it. Do you know how long it’s been since we’ve had a family dinner?”

“Yeah.” They both did. The last time Scrooge hosted a normal, for them, family dinner was before Della disappeared. But Della was home and so was Donald. Gladstone read over the message a third time and wondered had Fethry received the same message. He’d find out soon.

“Yes, I picked up the prescription,” Linda groaned. “I know. I know. I promise I will change them. Yeah, gotcha. Uh huh.” She turned away and tucked her hand over her mouth. “No, please, don’t make me say that.” She inhaled deeply. “Fine, I love you too,” she mumbled.

She spun back to meet three curious stares.

“Erm...my grandma?”

“Your grandma,” Gladstone frowned. “Really?”

“This isn’t about me.” She snatched to Opal. “Okay, we’ve got how long to make these two a couple deserving of Donald’s jealousy.”

“Two days,” Opal said. She looked at them. “Can you do this?”

Absolutely not. Gladstone didn’t know why she asked that, but he was in a uniquely determined and wanted to see this to the end. Or at least see Storkules happier than he was that morning in Duckburg.

“Gladstone?”

He jumped a little. “Yeah buddy,” he chuckled. “Where do we start?”

Linda and Opal exchanged glances, with the latter groaning in aggravation. Whatever doubts shared between them was drowned under Linda’s enthusiasm.

“Let’s get down to business -,”

“No.”

“Ugh,” Linda slouched, head thrown back. “Why can’t you let me have this?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Always wanted to include Linda and Opal in a semi-leading role, and I've finally done it. No worries, they'll return later. It's all about our handsome boys, Gladstone and Storkules and their long buried emotional issues.
> 
> As always, feedback is greatly appreciated!


	3. Know Your Myths

Time’s speed went under their radar. Had they noticed, no one would’ve complained. Most likely, they'd complain for the effort they'd put in their scheme, but the desire was forgotten once they reached a consensus. The next step was simple - formulating a method to realizing their goals.

Linda called room service for afternoon lunch. Opal browsed that month’s Cosmo Online for any potential romantic tips. Storkules, to their surprise, was proficiently versed in numerous romances, but they seemed a little outdated for their audience.

“I don’t understand the big deal.” Gladstone snatched the laptop off of Opal’s lap. “We need to convince Donald we’re the real deal. That isn’t hard.”

Linda’s nostrils flared indignantly. “A believable relationship is worth every penny. Donald’s stubbornness is what we'll appeal to. We prey on his negative emotions, his insecurities, because that is what he holds fiercely.” Linda's voice escalated in daring boldness, almost feverish unlike anyone had ever known.

Storkules weighed the others’ muddled expressions. “Linda, I appreciate your efforts, but Donald is not some pig up for slaughter. This venture is meant to build us up, not bring him low.”

If the words reached her, Gladstone couldn’t tell. Her eyes drew a blank, then tightened. “I doubt we can bring him any lower than he is, but that isn’t our intention. Sometimes, a little jealousy helps you realize what you’re neglecting.”

Gladstone slipped in, resting a comforting touch on his bicep. “I promise you, Donald won’t be any worse for wear.” 

Storkules disinclination was palpable. Doubt didn’t fit the Champion of Olympus, but he wore its masks bravely. “Very well, Gladstone,” he said slowly. “But after all this time, I’ve realized something. Something essential to the success of this endeavor.”

“What?” 

“We do not know each other.” Storkules nodded, certain of this conclusion. “Am authentic courtship portrayal is impossible while we remain ignorant of each other. So I ask, who are you Gladstone Gander?”

Gladstone loured, setting his hand on knee. “A good question,” he gripped his beak thoughtfully. “I’d say we’ll have to start at the beginning. What do you say?”

“Excellent.”

While they evolved, Linda and Opal nodded. “We will give you some privacy,” Linda said, standing. She squatted briefly, gripping her knees and popped right up.

Gladstone paid attention to her hips and thighs. Their flexibility was visible. It made a lot more sense now that he thought about it.

When he looked up, he met Opal’s glare. She grimaced, shaking her head and walking away. “She’s definitely rubbed off on you,” she stalked off. 

Linda watched her go.“She is such a buzzkill,” she smacked her mouth disappointedly. “I don’t know where she gets it, but yeah,” she fished for something her pocket. “One of our guests cancelled last minute. Had booked out Of Gods and Men suite. I think they’re getting divorced, but whatever, room’s already paid for a three day stay.” She tossed two card keys in their direction.

“So, you’re saying?”

At that, her easy personality hardened. “It means you’re mighty lucky,” she bit. “You get a paid vacation in Dawson, congratulations.”

Like Opal, she stalked off the stage and out of the conference room, but remembering an important detail, she stopped midway through the door. 

“Gladstone,” she said quietly. 

“Yes?” He peeked beside Storkules massive bicep. 

“Do not make my job any harder than necessary,” she squinted so tightly he thought she was having an aneurysm. “I mean it.”

He raised his hands defensively. “Fine, okay.” 

She nodded and slipped out the door, leaving them to their conversation. Storkules stared at Gladstone. Gladstone stared at him. They chuckled nervously, suddenly aware of the intensity awaiting them.

“So,” relief sounded off in a single clap. “Where do we start?”

* * *

Of Gods and Men was far more immaculate than it had any right to be. For a dingy outside appearance, the Blackjack Hotel didn’t waste any expense in providing respectable accommodations for their guests. Gladstone fell back on the bed and rolled, content. He was tempted to nap right then and there, and would’ve if not for the groaning creak to his right. He opened an eye and saw Storkules sitting on his bed patiently. His dopey, honey brown gaze started Gladstone, reminding as to why they were in this ridiculously comfortable room.

“Oh right,” he sat up. “How do you want to start? Where do you want to start?”

Storkules pondered carefully, and smiled. “I asked who you were. It seems fitting to start at the beginning?”

“Heh.” At that moment his smile waned. His confidence - usually glued to his skin - cracked at the center. “It’s a simple. He propped a knee to rest his arm on. “I was born lucky. Inherited from my mother.”

“Your mother,” Storkules awed. “What were your parents like?”

Gladstone chuckled weakly. “My Mom was very...loud. So many people thought she was this docile doll, but she was loud and a little obnoxious. She loved drinking her morning tea, watered with three teaspoons of rum.” He didn’t want to get into her warm hugs and sweet kisses, or how she changed her voice when it bedtime for bedtime stories. 

“She was kind. The luckiest woman in the world - had to be to marry my father, but she was humble, generous. Always gave to others who didn’t have enough of their own. We’d have so many ‘uncles’ and ‘aunts.’ My father was infuriated, but he could never stop her. Not Daphne Duck.”

“Daphne Duck?” His clasp tightened in between his legs. He leaned forward, amazed at what he was about to say, or rather, what his brain finally connected. “As in, Daphne Duck, paternal aunt to Donald Duck?”

Gladstone didn’t know whether to be offended or disappointed or smug that his unlucky cousin had mentioned his mother without mentioning him. “Yeah,” he shrugged. “She’s my mother. Luckiest gal in the world, formerly.”

Storkules’s brow curved neatly. “Formerly?” And then it struck him. “Oh dear,” he curled the information in himself. “My deepest apologies.”

“What? Come on, Point Break,” he chuckled. “It was a long time ago. It doesn’t even bother me most days, and besides, Mom wasn’t the type to mope about. If she was, she’d be like my old man.”

“Old man?” He paused, unfamiliar with the term. His confusion was temporary. “Oh! Your father. My roommates have been most forthcoming on modern society’s vernaculars.”

“Roommates?” He smirked teasingly, more curious than not. “What about them?”

“I see what you’re doing.” He permitted this diversion, sensing that his new friend’s family discussion had come to an abrupt end. “My roommates are models.”

“Models?”

“Ah yes, Tyson Beakford, Mark Vanderbill, and Marlon Carrara. Wonderful friends they are.”

Gladstone recognized each of those names and looked away, confused. “And pray tell, how did you become roommates with three of the world’s top male models?”

“I was actually on my way to meet with another potential landlord Donald helped locate.”

“Did he come with you?”

“No,” he said with a chuckle. “He was busy with the boat.” He cleared his throat. “I was on my way when I approached a car that was in need of assistance. Mark and his friends were in dire need of a spare tire. So I helped, so forth and so forth, they rented their spare room in their penthouse.”

“Penthouse?” It was hard to believe. “How do you pay rent?”

“Ah, good question,” Storkules beamed. “I informed them of my heroic task of becoming a responsible adult. They helped me with various things like finding a few gigs and transportation and savings and investments and phones and memes.” His right pinched at that. “I’m still unsure what that means, but I do try to send as many to all my friends.”

“Gigs?”

“Modeling. Just part time though. Mr. Ralph is very nice.”

“And investments?”

“Marlon sends me to the absolute best.”

Gladstone wanted to laugh and did. It was ridiculous to know what the god had accomplished in less than a year. “Wow, Sunspot, you really know how to impress, so what about your family? Son of Zeus? Tangled family tree.”

Storkules chortled at that. Had his stomach been three times larger, Gladstone imagined it would’ve jiggled in humor. “Why yes, yes, it is, but I did not join my divine family until much later.” He wiped a tear from his eye. “I had lived my life with my mortal family prior to achieving my divinity. I was born a demigod, but lived among man during my formative years.”

High school world history returned to him. He recalled the stories, vaguely, as there were many myths to learn. Of the numerous gods, only one had caught his interest. Other stories lied dormant in memory, so he trudged and weeded until the right one relit the flame.

“Alcmene.” Piece by piece the picture was drawn. “You weren’t born Storkules.” He was tempted to dismiss it as some baseless rumor, but Storkules gentle enervated wrinkles made him falter. 

“Mother and Father, my other father, named me Alcaeus in honor of my mother’s lineage to the famed Alcaeus. I was relieved of it when I was bestowed my godhood.”

“And what of your family?” Gladstone tilted his head curiously. “What of them?”

Storkules laughed. It seemed that his deep chest rumbled alongside his laughter. “I am immortal, and they are not.”

“But your uncle is Hades, right?” Another god he picked and tossed around for familiarity’s sake made his head hurt. “Can’t you go to him?”

Honestly, he should’ve shut his beak the moment the idea hit him. But Gladstone wanted to help, in some way, and for reasons he didn’t quite understand. Storkules must have sensed his intentions, and the twinkle in his eyes exceeded his sister’s lunar illumination made him want to weep.

He didn’t know why. He didn’t think to ask, and in the deeper reaches of his memories, deeper than any residual remains, someone - something called to him in a language he used to know.

“Ah, Gladstone,” he laid his hand on top of his. “You remind me so much of her.”

He was completely submerged under the weight of his hand, and warmth. But he didn’t want to think about that.

“Who?” His voice’s smallness frightened him. He didn’t want to think about that either.

“My sister.”

“Oh,” Gladstone sucked in between his teeth. He couldn’t explain the squishy feeling tingling his nerve endings. “You mean the big haired one? Always with Della?”

Storkules beheld him strangely, laughing hoarsely as if tears were going to strike him down. His nervous laughter ceased, leaving him with a convulsion of emotions radiating off his flesh. 

“Yes, Selene,” he clarified. “Goddess of the Moon. She is dear to my heart.” But...Gladstone heard but didn’t ask, and didn’t get the chance to had he wanted. Storkules phone rang.

“Hello?” Storkules guffawed. “Marlon, yes, I did leave work early. Oh no, no, I was not attacked by a harpy. I made a new friend.”

The giant man stood and started to pace. He gnawed softly on his fingertips. “I am dreadfully sorry to startle to you, my friend, but you do not have to wait for me. I will be spending the weekend at a friend’s. Yes, please, do not cry. I know you worry so much about my developing friendships.” He shrugged helplessly at Gladstone. “Yes, yes, and I you.”

Gladstone leaned back onto his pillows - exceptionally comfortably - folding his hands over his stomach. He watched the god of strength pace back and forth, doing his best to alleviate his friend’s concerns. “Curious,” Gladstone mused, “curious indeed.”

It was about time he brushed up on his Greek mythology. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll like to point out Storkules' roommates are based off of actual super models. He's that endearing. Linda's character is growing on me. I like that she has this high rom-com energy when she isn't lying about in the hotel.


	4. A Sharp Dressed Man

Returning to the city wasn't overly complicated. In fact, lucky travels brought them back a little after ten in the morning. Seeing their attire wasn't befitting for their weekend plans, they visited Reynard & Vixen Tailoring; a prominent, historical city landmark. Even an alien invasion didn't stop business. The owners restocked their inventory for ammunition and other unsavory items imported out of an inter-dimensional network. Of the available shops, Gladstone knew R&V was the most suitable for Storkules' unique body shape.

But as Storkules browsed, requesting for the largest sizes available, Gladstone went to work, or more specifically was in the process of putting someone else to work. 

“Linda, I mean it.” He stepped away from where Storkules was getting measured and sized. “I need you to do some_ quick and I’m in a hurry_ research.”

“Gladstone, I am at work.”

“Seriously? You’re at work.” His dry tone conveyed his skepticism adequately. "You're actually working."

"For the right incentive," she said shortly. "Or that's what Arpin has promised."

“Who’s Arpin?”

A beat, then an awkward chuckle. "He's my grandpa, yeah, on my dad's side. Grandpa Arpin. He's visiting from France on some...archaeological retrieval," she smacked loudly. "A family thing, y'know?"

"Oh." He slumped, disappointed. He didn't understand his disappointment, and he wouldn't have been able to explain it if prompted. “Look, I need information on Storkules' family?

Linda scoffed. “His dad’s Zeus. His sister’s Selene. His step-mother is Hera. He has tons and tons and tons -,"

"No, not that family." Gladstone dragged his hand down his beak. Gladstone sighed. “I mean his other family. His mortal family. Can you get me anything on them?”

“Huh. It’ll be tricky, but I’ll see what I can do.” She called out to her grandpa, and Gladstone heard a thick French accent reply in affirmative. 

"Grandpa Arpin says he'll do what he can."

“Great, thanks babe.”

"Yeah, he knows a guy who knows a guy, who may have stolen from a guy." As an aside, “Don’t stop working on your romantic charms. Donald needs to believe the facade."

“Yeah, I know.” He frowned. “But what about -,” the call was abruptly dropped. He glared at his phone. "Who raised her," he grumbled, shoving it in his pocket. It was a good thing to do, as Storkules approached him, arms outstretched and appropriately dressed.

“Gladstone, what do you think?”

He glanced and guffawed louder than he had in years. There was no doubt concerning Storkules' attractiveness. He was a handsome if beautiful figure, but the suit he'd chosen was poorly formed for his muscles. He was too large, and the suit was too tight. Gladstone sensed the slightest twitch would rip the outfit at the seams. 

“Sunspot, you look fabulous,” he patted his bicep. “But you need something more fitting.”

"By Hephaestus' hammer," he exclaimed. "Mr. Foxchi said the same thing!"

"Foxchi?"

"He's the owner of this grand establishment."

"And you know him personally?"

"Someone has to make Father's clothes." 

"He's the reason Zeus doesn't like foxes."

They spun to the voice and saw them walking in their direction. One tall and lithe, hair a beige blonde, and fastened in a high ponytail. The other was short and stubby compared to her companion. Easily recognizable, she ran to Gladstone, eyeing him suspiciously.

“Lucky to see you here, cuz.” He spread his arms, grinning. “Don’t tell me you’re stalking us?”

“Nope,” Della smirked. “Saturday meetup is their sibling routine." She motioned to the godly siblings behind them. She gestured over her shoulder to the godly siblings. Storkules had - predictably - swept Selene in a tight embrace, but as a god, she returned his strength gladly. Gladstone wasn’t surprised but a little uneasy at the sight. She was so small, and he was not. He knew it wasn’t his place to criticize godly dynamics, but their sibling affection gave him an idea. He turned to his cousin, studying her bright eyed smile that made him glare thoughtfully.

Stokrules' nostalgia and Della's stories recited in his memories. “Hey, Dells,” he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer as he turned her around. “Can I pick your mind for a sec? Great.”

Della didn’t resist him nor did she give him permission, not readily. She leaned into his chest, grinning, and she clicked her tongue, eyebrow cocked knowingly in that special, Della Duck way.

Gladstone faltered. “You know,” he mumbled. 

“Gotta admit, it sounds pretty fun.”

“How’d you find out?”

“Come on,” she jabbed gently. “Storkules tells Selene everything."

“Sisters.”

"And cousins,” she grinned, patting his back. “So, your plan is to make Donald jealous?”

“Doubt it’ll work.”

Della winked at him. He knew that wink. Knowing, calming, and self-assured, it was that finality wink she used when left in doubt. Her impulsiveness equaled her stubbornness in annoyance, but her ability to comfort he missed desperately, more than they knew.

"Doomed to fail? Debatable." An easy punch in his stomach made him clench. "Anything related to Gladstone Gander makes him fall apart. He's already annoyed you're friends."

“He is?”

She shoved him playfully. "You're obliviousness is as obnoxious as your luck," she crossed her arms. "I asked Donald to call Storkules, and what does he do? He comes home with a box of high model magazines. When he found out you were friends? He threw his stove into the tub. Wanna see what happens when he finds out you're a couple?"

Gladstone had a good guess, but he didn't dig deeply into it. Instead, he stirred the subject towards something less violent.

"Do you know why he hasn't called him?"

"Having the answer means I wouldn't have to nag him," she shivered, disgusted at the lengths she went to help her brother. "It reminds me of Mom."

The sort of diversion Gladstone knew she couldn't ignore, and he jumped on it. “Sorry Fly Girl,” he ruffled her hair. "If it helps, you're more Uncle Quackmore than Auntie."

Della swatted him away, laughing. "Whatever." But they knew the comparison pleased her. Warmth radiated in her eyes. “I still don’t know why Donald hasn’t called him or anything. Whatever you’re doing will be good for him.”

As easy as slicing an apple pie, they were returned to task. He chuckled, if a little worriedly. "So Dells," he grinned cheekily, "y'know anything about Sunspot?"

"You mean Storkules?"

"Yerp."

She scrutinized him, sensing something else working in his brain. “I dunno,” she replied suspiciously, tilting her head to get a better look at him. “What do you want to know?”

Traditionally, she would've listed his parents, siblings, and other monumental occasional, like his trials and defeats, or the day he received his godhood. That was a special occasion, a unique occasion Della thought was worth sharing, but she sensed that wasn't what her cousin wanted to hear.

"His family," he said softly. He kept his volume low and careful, refusing to look over her head to where the siblings were engrossed in conversation with Mr. Fox. "His mortal family."

“His mortal family?” Her expression twisted thoughtfully. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I’ve read tons of Greek scrolls on Storkules, and while they’ve mentioned his mortal family, nothing speaks of their fates.” Her bewilderment told him more than necessary, and they were drawn to an obvious conclusion.

“Okay,” he said slowly. “But Hades is his uncle, right? He mentioned a sister.”

“A sister?” Della frowned. “He has a lot of sisters.”

“But a mortal one?”

Her frown deepened. “One of the stories mentioned his half-sister Laonome, but she married some Greek hero, I think. Understand there are a lot of Greek heroes." 

"Yeah, yeah." He rubbed his neck, disappointed. "Is that it?"

"Yeah," she answered slowly. "Why?"

Laonome was a piece of Storkules' past he wanted to keep quiet. Sharing his suspicions would give Della a trail he wasn't ready for anyone to walk. "The more information I have," he popped his collar, grinning, "the sweeter I can make our love look to Donald." He scoffed derisively, laughing at his own shortsightedness. "What am I saying? The old Gander charm will do the trick."

"Right," she drawled.

Della stumbled, just a little, to watch him twist and strut back to the other side of the store. He rolled his shoulders proudly, and clicked his tongue at every passing person of reasonable attractiveness. Shaking her head, she mused his audacity hadn't failed to surprise her.

“Hey babe,” he finger gunned Storkules. “How about we head out on our lunch date.”

Storkules chuckled. “Yes, my darling.” Gently, like a swan tending to its wounded mate, he caressed the back of Gladstone’s head. His thick eyelashes, unique for a man of his stature, imitated a hummingbird’s wings.

Selene was caught in an invigorating discussion with a work and turned with a smile. “I love when an actor gets into character,” she grinned, clapping in mock congratulations. “You’ll knock Donald right into Aphrodite's love nest.”

“You think?”

“I know,” Selene affirmed. “You may be a jerk, but you've got heart."

"I'll take that backhanded compliment, your goddess."

Della rolled her eyes. "So, we'll see you tomorrow night?"

"Yeah," Gladstone scratched his neck. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh, we came to pick up Donald's sailor suit," Selene laughed, hands on her hips. "Apparently, when the Moonlanders invaded, they took off with Donald's clothes and high model magazines."

"Clothes and magazines?" 

"Yeah," Della said. "They admitted to liking his style, and that got Uncle Scrooge going. Glomgold designed them."

Storkules chuckled. "It's more likely they admired Donald's most dashing figure when wearing his sailor uniform." He sighed dreamily, "He always looked dashing in his heroic wear."

They chuckled weakly, but agreed Glomgold's design was flattering. "If only he wasn't a maniacal, egotistic man child," Della crossed her arms. "He probably would make it as a fashion designer...in the 1800s, for children." She moved on to the dinner, reminding them of the hour they were expected to arrive. "It's important to Scrooge," she claimed. It'd be the first time in over ten years he'd have all his kids together under one roof. 

"Yeah, yeah," Gladstone kicked air. "You know he won't admit it aloud."

Della smirked. “We don't need him to.” With that, they grabbed a sailor uniform enclosed in plastic and left. As he walked in the same direction, he stepped on an unclaimed pink diamond, no larger than his thumb, and used that to pay for the clothes Storkules ruined and purchased. Fortunately, something was found for him - a burgundy sweater that complimented his figure and a pair of dark denim jeans.

“It’s getting chilly anyways,” Gladstone held his hand as they exited. “What do you want to do now?”

“How about lunch?” Storkules shined. It was hair, naturally, that shined so gloriously. Hair kissed by the sun, and he ran his fingers through it. "I'm famished."

The thought of lunch - a potentially free one, knowing his luck - was appetizing. Gladstone's grip tightened. “Alright, Sunspot,” he started to the left, “let’s go.”

When his phone vibrated silently in his left breast pocket, Gladstone didn't feel inclined to answer it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Storkules has more baggage than he lets on. It's hard not to enjoy his presence.


	5. My Aunt is not Your Business

The rest of the day was spent getting their stories straight. They met like most couples did. Gladstone won a surprise trip to Athens where Storkules was vacationing with his family. 

They spent the rest of their day getting their stories straight. Gladstone won a surprise trip to Athens where Storkules was vacationing with his family where they met by pure, gracious luck. 

Coincidentally, this was not a total lie. An early autumn ticket spontaneously purchased on the fly with money discovered during his morning walk paid for Gladstone's trip. He indulged to a disgusting degree, capable of making the richest man on the world sick to his stomach. On the same note, Athena had summoned Storkules for a much needed vacation. One job was exhausting enough, having three left a god of strength drained. 

Fate planted Gladstone in Thessaloniki and Storkules in Athens, denying their precious meeting, but the possibility existed. And no one would know any better. Their approximate vicinity was enough to spin their tale as accurately as possible, despite it never happening. 

"We dressed as tourists. It was a beautiful time," Storkules hummed, swallowing a jumbo fried shrimp. "She wanted to show me the city's development. I hadn't visited in centuries."

"Sounds neat." And horrifyingly mundane. He didn't add that part. "Wish I'd be there with you, maybe I could've met," no, he shook his head. "Lets get down to our interactions."

Storkules whistled. "What do you prefer? Romantic doting, or passionate serenades?"

Gladstone contemplated. His past partners were casual at best, mostly quick hits that took what they wanted at their excursion's conclusion. "No," he said slowly, bringing his straw to his mouth. "We need to keep it cool and subtle. We gotta convey our commitment."

"Convey our commitment," he repeated. "Keep it cool." He processed the commands, setting his drink on the table. "In my youth, I often sent passionate letters to my companions, or sometimes, I'd play the lyre outside their bedroom window."

He painted a vivid portrait. Gladstone saw the young, mortal standing outside on bended knee - the forgotten instrument, lost in time finely positioned in his grasp - and he played a melody, a hymn so brilliant it brought tears his lovers' eyes. As romantic as the tale was, for someone like Gladstone, it sounded ridiculous, but humorous and earnest. As Storkules often did, it got Gladstone thinking. He knew his thoughts encroached on sensitive land, and the topic he wanted to discuss was far too deep, too dangerous for him to pose in front of his friend. But curiosity didn't sleep for anyone, even the luckiest gander in the world.

"The lyre,” He swished his mimosa, “I forget how musically inclined you gods were.”

"We appreciate the fine arts," Storkules' barreled chest trundled in adoration. "Except for Tyndareus, but he was not a god."

“No?”

"A mortal king, and so much more." He fell to his sweetened lemon tea, fixated on his reflection. "A King of Sparta, deposed, then reposed." He chuckled. "He preferred silence over music, or good jokes."

"Don't Greeks love music?"

"A generalization, my friend," he replied, crossing his arms. "Sparta was a warrior race, and their militant prowess came above all else. Music? Joviality? None of that proved your worth. Your strength in battle. Your tenacity in war." A dark shroud casted over his eyes, and his voice lowered. "It is how you exalt the Spartan way and give devotion to Ares, God of War, and my brother." 

Gladstone stared, completely unamused by the sudden turn in demeanor. "Huh," his tongue clicked. "Zeus the Douche never slow down.

"Well, to be fair, Ares is his true born son with Hera." But even that couldn't hide the twisted smirk on Storkules' beak. "But no, no, he does not. He still doesn't, though we all wish he would." His smile remained as defiant as ever, but its sunny gleam faded under some inscrutable darkness. Gladstone didn't know where it came from - the sun was bright, and there was no rain in the forecast.

Gladstone was being kind on that front. He recognized the look - older, morose, and disappointed. It terrified him in an angry, abstract way, knowing Storkules feared offending someone they revered though they knew their reference went unnoticed or worse, dismissed. 

In times like these, he sometimes wished he possessed Della's forwardness. Striking up an oblivious conversation or pinching the irritated nerve where it hurt most, if only to begin stitching up the wound, but he wasn't Della and lacked her skills in communication, no matter how minimal they were. He preferred applying a slow acting salve and downed his afternoon mimosa, smacking his mouth loudly to cover up his rising irritation. 

“Tyndareus?” He hiccuped. “He wasn't a musician. Didn't appreciate the fine arts. How'd you sweep a guy like him off his feet?"

Just like that, the offending thoughts were brushed aside. Storkules blushed, looking away with a schoolboy's face, and smiled sheepishly. "I didn't do much," he admitted. "He was a stoic man. Calm, collected, and in more ways than one, the epitome of Spartan society, and yet," he said softly, "he was not."

"He wasn't?"

"His temper righteous, uncontrolled some would say. A gift? A curse? No one could determine that, even amongst the Spartans, but he made a wonderful storyteller." He tucked his fist under his beak and sighed. "Glorious stories were told under the stars. I loved hearing him speak, though many claimed his voice tore at the eardrums."

“His temper was righteous, uncontrolled some would say. It was a gift and a curse, even amongst the Spartans. However, he did make for a wonderful storyteller.” He tucked his fist under his beak and sighed. “And what glorious stories he told under the stars.”

Storkules' expression twisted as if affronted. "Always," he faced Gladstone. "And what of you? Who was your Tyrandeus?"

His Tyrandeus? He almost laughed, almost. It was too funny to think about it. He had so many moments in the night, so many moments in the middle of the day. He couldn't pinpoint one, single night, despite knowing that wasn't what Storkules meant. Gladstone thought and dug through his memories until he stumbled upon one particular memory he thought he'd adequately buried. Sucking in his breath, he gripped the table as he leaned back, hissing loudly enough for Storkules to hear. 

"Nah," he declined. "Gladstone Gander? Me? No person has gotten close." Arrogance soothed his insecurity and rising panic, stifling under that four leaf clover her called comfort. Normally, this answer would suffice and pacify the person's curisoity, and for someone like Storkules, this should've been enough. Gladstone's family knew the truth and him, and Storkules knew nothing. Yet, a half moon study was responsible for Gladstone's doubt, and a sliver snaked its way up his spine as Storkules sipped his tea innocently.

“What of Matilda?”

An inhumane sound - he was certain it was a honk - choked in his throat. "Matilda," he croaked, instead. 

“Yes,” Storkules continued obliviously. “You said her name in your sleep. And Linda. And Aunt Matilda, so I presumed it was not as...evocative as I previously imagined.”

He debated and tossed and reasoned with himself, and his feelings. He decided it wouldn't hurt if he were to give in this one time. "Matilda," he said. "The single one. An amazing girl. It took me five hours to fall in love with her."

Her hair was a dark blonde, and her eyes were deeper than mahogany. He knew he annoyed her at first, but like most women, she fell quickly, strongly. Hemlock scented her clothes.

“And then?”

He started. “What?” Jerked to the present so roughly, he scowled at his own weakness. "Oh," he blinked. "She was an evil, green witch in disguise and flew off to Italy. I dunno." He brought his drink to his mouth. "Sixteen years ago. A lifetime since then."

In the past sixteen years, he had successfully suppressed her and his feelings for her. They stirred, occasionally, but not too much to make him look backwards. His luck promised others. They were nameless, beautiful and handsome and otherworldly, possessing names he regularly forgot in the act of. Most of the time, they didn't stay for breakfast. 

At times, the want called. A deep, sharp want. He recited their names. Matilda. Feather. Donna, who did not want him to know her real name. Linda. His stomach curled. His saliva thickened, and he drank the rest of his mimosa to flee himself from their taste.

Storkules drank heavily. Silent but observant. "Apologies, my friend. Some parts of our pasts are too tender to revisit."

Tender was an understatement. Sleep had a terrible, awful tendency of uncapping old memories, but he didn't want to think about what Storkules heard last night. Yet, Gladstone was compelled to comfort him.

“As tender as a ribeye,” he joked. “Look, if it helps, Aunt Matilda was a fine lady. I didn’t understand it back then, but I know why my mom adored her. Why everyone did.”

“Aunt Matilda?” Storkules shifted. “Sister of Hortense McDuck?”

Gladstone’s dry chuckle confirmed it. “Yes,” he said, quietly. He should have known Donald - despite his annoyance, would have told him, or rather, he would have known. Some secrets were easy to hide. Others were a bit trickier. He rolled his neck, casual still. “She was one of Mom’s guests,” he air quoted. “A special guest, actually, she got to sleep in her bed.”

“And your father?”

“What about him?”

“I’d presume he was not pleased with this arrangement.”

“Oh.” Gladstone folded his arms behind his head. “Oh, my father was extremely pleased with this arrangement.” He clicked his tongue, getting lost in the sky’s open skin. 

“He was?”

He looked at him to confirm that this was the most obvious fact in the world - although Storkules had never met Matilda, Daphne, or Gustav. “He loved my mother,” he explained. “It wasn’t the sort of love to sustain a marriage.” He shrugged indifferently. “Everyone got what they wanted, for a time.”

Gustav and Daphne’s unconventional marriage was the talk of the town years after their deaths. He, the sole heir to new money, had married a farmer’s daughter, and though she was beautiful and fair and baked the most delicious apple pies, she was still a farmer’s daughter.

Snatching a man like that, in less than a year, and with a pink diamond engagement ring, she was more than the luckiest girl in town. She was, irrefutably, the luckiest woman in the world.

“I’d seen their wedding photo,” Gladstone confessed, eyelids hooded. “I didn't go in there often," he shrugged.

His mother was pristine. His father was distinguished, if oddly placed beside his young bride.

Geese did not hold a handsome reputation. Gustave appeared like a boorish, brick wall glowering above a wisp daffodil. Her curls were tucked discreetly under her veil, but he spotted a single band of lemon spotting out, defiant at the restraints. 

“I don’t know what I thought.” He inspected the memory, uniquely enormous for a child of seven and a half. “They looked,” aggravation curled around his beak. His limited vocabulary was occasionally frustrating.

“Unhappy?"

“No.” He swallowed. Happy and unhappy were too simplistic, and despite what his family appeared on the surface, simple didn't match their interior description. "They were happy."

Time waited, passed. Gladstone grew uncomfortable, but in all fairness, he always became uncomfortable when dealing with his parents. Their memory shadowed him, or that was what he wanted from them, now that they'd been dead for over twenty years.

"Your aunt," Storkules suggested.

He blinked. "My aunt?" An out, this was what it was. He'd take it. "Oh, she gave them what they needed for as long as she could, and then, they died."

More like eight and a half year, close to a decade, but who was counting? All that happened in the past, where they belonged.

“And you?”

He didn't have an answer to that. He'd hope for Storkules to repeat his question, for clarification purposes, and would've gladly stalled until a suitable answer arrived. What had Aunt Matilda done for him? He could tell Storkules. It wouldn't hurt. The stories he had were far and great, immeasurable when compared to Uncle Scrooge's, but Gladstone knew revealing every secret and tale, wrenching it down to its bare essence, wouldn't be enough. She'd done more than enough, more than he could ever say or begin to describe, and when his mouth opened, he was ready to admit that. Admit the yearning he had for her, like a child missing his mother, when his phone rang.

Lucky timing.

An alert flashed across his screen - a robbery in France. He swiped left, pressing the screen to his ear. “Linda?”

She panted, training her lungs to cooperate. “I got what you wanted,” she hyperventilated. “Strange how long it took," feet scratched on pavement, and she swallowed, nowhere near to steadying her breathing. "Greeks are really divided on Storkules," she managed to pant out.

“On Sunspot?"

"His history," she gulped. "It's confusing. His origins are the same all the way. His character is consisted. His family name was an inheritance from his mother."

“Yeah,” he grinned sheepishly at Storkules. Covering the phone, he whispered he'd return shortly, and was relieved to see he him accept the excuse. Gladstone worked around the cafe where he spoke freely, though quietly. He tucked an arm under his elbow. "What did you find?"

"Abundant information," breathing normalized, giddiness unwarranted in her tone spat at him. "His triumphs. His failures. His family."

Having heard the stories from the source, Gladstone wasn't impressed. “Son of Alcmene and Zeus. Stepson to Amphitryon. Half twin brother to Iphicles. Half-brother to Laonome -,”

"I was getting to her," Linda interjected, shortly. "Y'know, the stories usually give us what happened to his parents and brother, but his sister? Nada."

"Nada?"

"Zip."

"Zip?"

"Nothing," she insisted. "Ancient text says she married an Argonaut, but it doesn't stop there." She paused to collect her frustration. "I'm a damn good researcher, if I say so myself, and sure, I'd say this is an unfortunate case of being a woman in Ancient Greece. But I don't think it's just that, y'know?"

“Linda,” Gladstone stressed, rubbing his forehead. “I’ve got him waiting at the table, and he is going to get curious.”

“Right.” She inhaled deeply, and a flutter of pages wooshed around her. He heard their crackle. “We -,”

“We?”

“Grandpa and I,” she explained stiffly. “We discovered some mighty fine ancient, hidden texts about tutelary gods. You know what they are?”

Gladstone grumbled. He did know what it meant, but preferred not to say. “Yeah,” he gritted. “Tutelary gods are guardians, usually patrons of location, person, people, or concept - ,”

“Like luck?”

He stared down the alley. “Yeah,” he bit down. “Like luck, so you’re telling me -,”

“Laonome was a handmaiden,” the smirk was clear in her voice, and he imagined she was someone comfortable, maybe her bed or a sofa, dressed in nothing but an oversized t-shirt - his t-shirt if he was correct. Her wool socks were drawn to her knees. “A handmaiden of your patron goddess, Tyche, goddess of fortune.”

The pin dropped. “He didn’t tell me that.”

“Well, there's more to the story.” Her triumph waned. “A lot more to this story,” she sighed. Ruffles were heard. She was shifting on whatever she reclined on. “I won’t tell you if you don’t want to, but," she paused uncertainly, "Gladstone, this isn’t a happy story.”

A good man would instantly resign his curiosity. He wouldn't push on the subject, accepting there were some things he didn't need to know. Storkules' would've told him had he asked, but Gladstone wasn't a brave man either. Asking wasn't an option he wanted to take. Her advisory warning considered, he decided to take a chance on the story, and hoped his luck would be enough to protect him.

He'd forgotten luck was a double sided coin, and sometimes, good luck lied under a lot of bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Carl Barks' Duck Family Tree referenced Gladstone's adoption to Matilda McDuck. I wanted to plant an idea as to why she was the chosen family member rather than Quackmore or Eider, Daphne's brothers. Storkules and Gladstone have their issues.


	6. Food Fight Confessions

The manor's changes were minimal. Although renovations had taken place, Gladstone's uncle would rather kick and scream like a four year old duckling denied their favorite toy than part with any item he'd spent money on. Crossing the front door's threshold, he speculated what catalyst brought upon subtle and explicit changes, but tonight wasn't opportune for discovery. He found his family parked in the foyer. Some admired updated decor and portraits, most waddled into the television room to reminisce.

"Opal locked all entry points from the labyrinth," Della wheezed. She'd clutched her stomach and fell over on her side. "She slipped into the castle and stole the Goblin King's most prized possession." Wiping an eye, she prompted them to guess. Any of them to guess what this precious possession was.

Fethry waved his hands excitedly, bouncing in his seat on the floor. "Oh, oh, oh, I know," he raised a finger, "his favorite hair conditioner!" He looked over to his left where a tall, blonde haired young woman sat cross-legged. "Dickie, what do you think?"

"Um..," she tapped her beak thoughtfully. "Guess, his cape?"

"Nope!" Della shouted with childish abandon. "Fethry was close. She stole his hair."

Opal crossed her legs on one of the chairs, rolling her eyes dismissively. She'd outgrown her juvenile pranks, but there was a ghost of a triumphant grin on her face. "His hair wasn't his most prized possession," she clarified.

"So what was it," spoke a blonde-haired woman Gladstone wasn't familiar with. But he didn't think to ask about her. Everyone else crowded around her like she was one of the kids despite appearing at least a decade or so younger, but it was hard to tell in their group. Ages ranged and varied and so did appearances. No one in the room looked like they were an immortal or in their early to mid thirties. Her certainly didn't.

Opal's sharp tone cut through. "It isn't age appropriate, Dickie," she replied nervously. "I don't want the kids to hear."

"They're always getting into things we don't want them to." Della shook her head, tiredly but with good humor. "Isn't it amazing?"

"It sounds exhausting," Opal replied dryly. "And I would've won that year's Duckburg's Costume Contest if not for someone's prank."

Della snorted. "Look, we apologized for that." 

"You poured fake blood on Mara Mongoose."

"How were we suppose to know she was going to wear an exact replica next to Carrie Cuckoo," she defended, stopping to breathe. "Who was also dressed as David Crowie."

"At least it wasn't actual pig's blood." Dickie recounted, resting on Fethry's lap. A comfortable position if Gladstone was being honest with himself.

Della laughed loudly. 'Course it wasn't actual pig blood we got off of Grandma's farm," she waved quickly. Wiping her eyes, she sighed. "Rest in peace, Old Farmer. Respiratory failure. Silent killer."

"Gigi wasn't kidding," Dickie laughed. She threw a hand up for emphasis. "Wild kids. Disaster adults. I didn't think she meant the wild part."

"Wait, she called us wild," Della brightened.

Opal scowled. "She called us disasters."

Gladstone saw this was his moment to slip in. "And where's Donald? He's coming to dinner isn't he?"

"Oh sure," Della answered. "He's picking up Thelma from a friend's. I would've flown in," Della rolled her eyes, "but you know, she said it was appropriate. What does she have against planes?" 

"Probably because her friends live in residential housing and there aren't any landing runways," Opal suggested.

"Or she could be embarrassed by you," Dickie added.

"Never," she pressed her hand to her chest, "my sweet, baby girl knows she has a firm but unbearably cool mom."

Opal and Dickie stared.

"Sure, Della."  
  
"Whatever helps you sleep at night."

Soon, their conversations resumed. Gladstone watched, pleased to see everyone reunited, but he refused to sit on the floor. Storkules' lap was too comfortable, and it wasn't like the latter was bothered by it. He was busy on his phone. He’d sent several reassuring text messages to his roommates, informing him that he planned to return home that night. 

“Wow, they sound really worried.”

“Oh, they are,” Storkules tsked softly. “They were the first friends I made in the city and welcomed me into their home. I hate worrying them so.”

Fethry nodded, patting his pectoral comfortingly. “Mitzi does the same. I told her to go to the bay and play with her sea friends. I do hope she’s having fun.”

“Your Mitzi is a true lady,” Storkules complimented, looking away from his phone to give Fethry his undivided attention. “Your friends mean well, sure, but you still gotta live a little."

“Indeed.”

Della stretched and massaged her thigh. "You know there are other seats in here," she pointed out. “Storkules lap isn’t the only piece of furniture around here.” She gestured to the vintage sofa, the second half empty of a bottom on top of it and other relic chairs used for leisure.

“Ah, Della,” Gladstone teased. “You’re right, he isn't the only piece, but he is the best.” He rested his head on his pectoral, humming delightedly at the soft, firm texture of his sweater and flesh. 

“Aw, dearest, you are too kind.” Storkules patted his head. “Your invitation to this lovely dinner is more than I deserve.”

“Thank you.”

The others stared at them, not confused in the slightest, but a little impressed at their reach. It was obvious to Della, Opal, and Dickie what was going on. 

“Aw, you two make an adorable couple,” Fethry complimented. He clasped his hands together, happy and proud for his cousin and friend. “How long have you been dating?”

“Two and a half days.”

Their heads whirled in an instant to the opening. Donald stood there, expression dry and beak flatlined. He appeared exhausted, more so than usual, but said nothing more, despite the glare in his eyes when he turned to them on the sofa.

“Hi Donald,” Fethry waved. “What’s up?”

A vein throbbed right above his left eye. “Dinner’s ready,” he said in a tight voice. “Mrs. Beakley and Duckworth are waiting.”

He turned to the dining room.

Nervous glances were exchanged, and someone cleared their throat. No one knew whose throat it was. 

“So,” Della said. “Ready to eat?”

*****

“Where’s Uncle Scrooge?”

An acceptable question, the main responsible for arranging dinner wasn't anywhere to be seen. His seat at the head of the table was mysteriously empty, leaving his guests to question his disappearance.

“Boys,” Della scooted to the table, “have you seen your uncle?”

“No,” Huey said. “He was here for breakfast before Uncle Donald and I left for the Junior Woodchuck summer meeting. We’re preparing for Little Chickadee cookie sales.” 

Louie shrugged. “He and Thelma were arguing the prices of alpaca yarn."

"Hey," hissed Thelma. "That was a private conversation."

"Alpaca yarn?" Della and Donald exchanged glares. "Thelma, what did we say about unauthorized inter-dimensional traveling?"

She pouted, crossing her arms as she slouched. "Not to." 

"It's dangerous, Phooey," Donald patted her thick, smooth auburn hair. "We know your school requires C.L.U.T.C.H training and internship. We want you to stay safe."

"Uncle Donald," she whined, "I'm perfectly safe with the Stardust Alpacas. Uncle Scrooge and I were negotiating prices to other vendors. He really wants a cut into that deal, but I haven't seen him since this afternoon before I left to visit Mason with Huey."

"Oh, right," Della's voice thickened, memories flooding her sights. "Chickadee cookie sales are vicious," she tucked her wrist under her cheek fondly. "When I was your age, I nearly lost an eye to one of them just for selling my cookies on the same block.”

Gladstone folded his arms on the table. “Della, Penny Pooch went for the eyes when you smashed her cookies in a fit of rage.” As he received a month's supply of Tagalongs that fateful afternoon, he recalled the memory in its entirety.

Della was undeterred. "She knew what she did," she scowled, crossing her arms defiantly. "Besides, she moved to Spoonerville for college or whatever."

“You almost stabbed someone eye’s out for cookies,” Louie asked, grimacing at the image. “Don’t you think that was a little extreme?”

Her glare darkened, and she gripped her fork. “She didn’t see me coming,” she hissed. “Until it was too late.” Suddenly, she brightened. “Hey, where’s dinner?”

Everyone stared, a little concerned, but quickly resumed their conversation. As they conversed, Storkules groomed Gladstone’s hair. He didn’t mind. A few feathers had come undone on their way to the mansion; without his fine toothed comb, his best attempts at resuming its original shape were failures.

“Don’t move,” Storkules chided gently. “I want it to stay in place for dinner, Gladstone.”

His large fingers were surprisingly nimble, and graceful. Gladstone raised a face mirror out of his pocket and watched the stray strands slip back into position.

“Wow, you are really good at this.”

“I’m a part-time hair stylist at Minnie’s Bow-tique.”

“Isn’t that in Mouseton?”

“Aha, it is, virtuous Fethry.” Storkules beamed. “Daring Dewford returned Hermes’ wings.” He gestured to Dewey across the table, seated next to Della. “It is most convenient travel.”

“And I get discount coupons for Minnie’s Bow-tique.”

“What?” Donald’s attention concentrated on Dewey. “You’ve flown to Minnie’s?”

He shoulders twitched uncomfortably, secret revealed. “Yeah," sheepishness was hard to conceal. “It wasn’t hard or dangerous. I may have hit a few birds, but no damage done.”

Donald paled, swiping to Della for confirmation.

“I said he could.” She flinched, just a little. “She’s got a hand for haircuts. I was in the Cloudslayer the entire time watching him.”

“You were?”

“Yes, sweetie,” she kissed his head. “I couldn’t let you go on your own.”

“Do you think she’d make a giant krill size bow?”

“And why would she do that,” Donald groaned, rolling his eyes. “It’s a krill.”

Gladstone, for one reason or another, frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean it’s a krill, and no one’s gonna make a giant krill a bow.”

He glared, crossing his arms. “You don’t know that.” He looked to Storkules. “When dinner is over, I am going to call Minnie myself and ask.” He meant what he said. "Y'know? I can call her right now. I'm sure I'll get her line."

As always, Donald hardened, stubbornness growing. “Typical Gladstone,” he scoffed. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms in an eerily identical fashion. “Always doing something to make himself look good.”

“Right, sure, like I need to make myself look good. I look great, Donaldo.” He scoffed in turn, pressing his phone to ear, waiting for the rings to start. “It’s still more than you’ve ever done.”

A dead pause - accompanied with gasps and head turns.

“Oh, shit.”

“Opal, no,” Della whispered.

Donald pushed back, standing. His cheeks were scarlet. His fists were clenched. His glare was unlike any other he’d ever spare Gladstone in the past and future. “What’s that supposed to mean,” he growled.

Gladstone wasn't a scrapper, not like Donald or Della or Opal or even Fethry. Abner was out of the equation, in a league that was separate from the rest. Gladstone liked it that way. Fighting was dirty, messy, dangerous, and people got hurt. His luck protected him, always, and would protect him despite Donald's challenge. He didn't stand a chance against him, and Gladstone didn't stand at all, rolling his eyes at his cousin's glare.

"You know what I mean."

Donald's cheeks darkened to a black cherry's pit, spreading all the way to his scalp. “Why I outta.” He shook his head, incoherent speech blubbering out of his mouth. “You’re only doing this to make me jealous!”

His accurate observation normally would've resulted in Gladstone admitting mockingly that yes, yes, it was an attempt to inspire jealousy in him. It'd work in increasing his anger, but no. No. Gladstone was irritated - more than irritated, and for the first time in many, many years, he glared coldly at his cousin. His laughter held none of its former jovial obliviousness.

“And why would we?” He waved dismissively. “We don’t have to do anything we don’t want to, and even if it were true,” he turned aside, lifting his beak, “you’re mighty jealous already.”

A fight was unavoidable, especially under these circumstances. A physical one could be prevented, but emotional? Della reached out to Donald, calmly reeling him back, but Donald focused on Gladstone's expression. His sly grin. His hooked eyebrow. The large hand resting demurely on his shoulder.

The large hand trying to reel him back, soothe him. 

The large hand that once did the same for him.

The large hand -

Thought didn't lie behind action. Had Donald taken a second to think, he wouldn't have said what he said. Jealously had come to a white, pimply head, and the truth was worse than he anticipated. Pitiful, obsessive jealousy, and nothing could be done about it in in that specific moment. So Donald reacted in in a way familiar to him and everyone else.

"Oh please," he spat. “Why would I ever be jealous over that?”

Was there a manner in which the damage could've been minimized? Probably. What he said was horrible on its own, but he had not gestured - thoughtlessly - to Storkules, perhaps the brunt force of his words wouldn't have hurt as much as it did. As this argument unraveled, at the precise moment his fingertips directed towards Storkules - Chronus, a time deity, dropped his favorite hourglass. Time stood still, and so did the dinner guests. Fortunately, there were numerous spares, so time resumed accordingly, and no one was the wiser.

Audible gasps shook the room, and afraid to say anything else, they held their breaths. Donald blinked confusedly at his arm, then lowered it. Storkules' expression was enough to tell Donald what he'd done. He was fortunate his denial didn't run too deeply to stop him from accepting responsibility. 

“Storkules -,”

“Thank you for the lovely dinner.” He smiled so beautifully, it hurt. His gratitude was palpable as he set his hand on Gladstone's shoulder for the last time. "Gladstone, you are better than you know. We tried, my friend, and nothing more can be asked."

“But -,” Gladstone reached for him, but he was faster than he looked. He vanished out of the room, leaving no trace of his presence. Had he cried? Probable. It was impossible to tell.

The guests' cognitive dissonance thickened. They stared at each other, at Donald, but settling on what had been Storkules' seat helped them absorb the gravity of the situation. Confusion washed under a wave of disappointment and crossed arms. Gladstone wasn't confused or befuddled. He didn't have a dissonance of the brain. He understood what happened, and like his cousins, he glared at his older cousin. The difference was that he wasn't disappointed, at least, not with Donald.

“What is your damage, Donald?”

His genial tone assumed a harsh cover, and surprise trickled over their faces. He didn't care.

“All he wanted was for you to reciprocate his feelings.” He realized what he said. “Be it romantic or friendship.”

“So this was a ploy to make me jealous.”

“Who cares?” He slapped his forehead, restraining his temper. “He wanted your respect and affection, like any friend would.”

“He should’ve called me.”

"Yeah, sure," he drawled, rolling his eyes. "Want us to call? Pick up the fucking phone, Donald."

He said it so coldly, so plainly the others did a double take to make sure they heard what they thought they heard. When they realized he did say it, they snapped to Donald, who had the decency to wear his surprise towards his cousin's unexpected word choice.

"Hey, there are -,"

"You mouth off about family," Gladstone interjected. "But we're the exception. Don't like me? Fine. But Fethry? Abner? Grandma?"

“Wait, what about Grandma,” Della asked.

“She had a nasty fall last year,” Fethry answered meekly. “Gladdy and Abner worked night and day to make sure she was okay.”

“It was more that I made sure she got everything she needed,” Gladstone clarified. “Assembly required is not my forte.” 

Della rounded on Donald, not accusatory, but confused. “You didn’t know?”

His brow needled, anger washing away to shame. "No," he shook his head. “Why didn't anyone call? Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

Gladstone shrugged sarcastically. "I dunno. We can trust you not to pick up the phone, and usually, when you do, you're either flapping about what's wrong with us or your bad luck or the boys. It isn't like we have lives we want to share. It isn't like you've shown interest in our tiny, child-free lives." He slammed down into the chair, cupping the empty glass in his palm.

"Gladstone," Della inquired soothingly, "what are you saying?"

It wasn't fair. Gladstone knew that. He'd always known, but it was completely equal. The measurements didn't lie. 

"I know I'm ridiculously lucky, successful, handsome, - ,"

“He’s got a point.”

“Louie, hush.”

“And obnoxious, arrogant, inconsiderate, selfish.” He opened his eyes, “I know it, and I own it.” He pointed to his chest. “But what about you, Donaldo?”

“Me?”

"At least I keep it straight," he pointed to his chest. "I know I'm an asshole, but you? Stop pretending, Donaldo. You're no Robert Browney Jr.."

"Enlighten me," Donald growled, tense. Yet, doubt trickled underneath the taunt.

Gladstone tilted his head, almost sadly so. Annoyed and crestfallen at the need to say the obvious aloud, and he caught Fethry near, bottom beak trembling, head shaking a visible 'no.' _No. Not here. Not now. Not like this._ If not now, then when? How? He'd lose his chance. Fethry would never say it. He loved Donald too much to allow the truth to hurt him. 

Gladstone loved Donald too.

But he didn't like him all that much.

"You aren't the only person who's lost someone they've loved," Gladstone set the crystal glass on the table. His sharp glare pierced through Donald's anger. "I wish you'd stop acting like you are."

Fethry looked at his plate, so did Della. Even Opal, who hadn't experienced the sort of loss Gladstone mentioned, retreated into herself. Dickie ducked into her phone, preferring mindless activity over the drama she was front row to. She admitted having dinner with her cousin - currently out of town - was a less painful affair, but she spoke so lightly, so dismissively no one really took it to heart. The children stayed seated, confused but aware something serious had imploded, as though they were trapped in a ring of fire.

Donald gawked at him. Anger extinguished, neither could comment further. He swallowed thickly, opening and closing his mouth. Was this true? Was this what his family thought of him? He never differentiated between Scrooge, Della, Gladstone, Fethry, and Abner, they were important to him in different capacities. Abner couldn't defend himself. Gus was with Grandma. Fethry had, predictably, closed himself off. And Gladstone?

Gladstone had never looked at him like that before.

“Oh.” He slouched, looking at his plate.

He'd never forgotten - ever - of what happened to their family. Time and time again.

"I should," voice thick.

“Yeah, you should.”

He sprinted out of the dining room. No one wanted to stop him, and no one tried. Certainly spent, Gladstone fell back in his chair and clutched his forehead. This was far more than he bargained for when he decided to go along with this, and all he wanted a stiff, cold drink.

Preferably, a tequila.

“You did a good thing, Gladstone,” Della said softly.

He wiped his face. “Did I? I feel like I made things ten times worse.”

“Probably,” Fethry added, smiling. "But he went after him."

He did. Would Donald have gone if everything had gone according to plan? Gladstone didn't know now.

“Yeah, yeah,” he smiled thinly. “Maybe, they won’t need luck.” He slid back in his chair, rubbing his hands together. “So? Where’s dinner?”

As if his question unraveled the cosmos, a split appeared in front of the head chair. A vortex of colors appeared, spitting out the missing relative and his lady. Scrooge and Goldie crashed onto the floor, tangled in each other. After several seconds of arguing, they stood briskly to pat their matted hair and straighten their clothes. Their attempts at propriety were short, drastically so.

Fethry took off his hat and pulled it over Huey’s face. Thelma gagged, raising her hands as a shield, staring at the wall with disgust. Della covered Dewey’s ears and pressed his face into her chest. Gladstone groaned, taking off his jacket to drop on Louie’s head, spinning him discreetly in the opposite direction. Dickie gasped shortly, curling into her phone, and Opal discreetly led Webby away, reminding her her grandmother needed assistance in the kitchen.

But Webby knew, Webby always knew.

“We were -,”

“On a mission -,”

“I didn’t know you shopped at Veronica’s Mystery, Mom.”

“And your coat is on backwards, Uncle Scrooge.”

“So now you know,” Goldie slid in the chair near Scrooge's. "We had fun in Pandemonium."

Opal scowled, less in revulsion - too dead inside to care at this point - but more in disappointed that didn't target their poor entrance. 

“You know you’re not allowed there,” she said, crossly, more of a parent than a child. “We had a court trial six months ago.”

Wearily indifferent, Goldie motioned for Scrooge to sit. Like an obedient husband, he did, pushing back his rising embarrassment as his kids made desperate attempts to avoid his line of sight. Their scrutiny was palpable, so thick he could taste it, coloring his cheeks a deeper vermilion than the actions responsible for this debacle. Keeping his head low and cheeks red wouldn't do him any good. With as much defiance as he could muster, he scanned the dining room, bouncing over each disgusted glare and found a question he thought would work as a distraction.

"Good," he coughed. "Yes, seems like dinner hasn't started."

"It hasn't," Goldie grinned. "We got here right on time."

"Good, but where's Donald? The invitation specified 7:00 p.m. sharp," his tongue rolled irritably, "the nerve of that boy." 

Rather than receiving belated excuses and explanations, his kids slapped their foreheads and groaned, looking at their empty plates. 

"What," Scrooge blinked. "Has he already eaten?"

"I wouldn't put it past Bentina," Goldie griped, pulling out her phone. "I'm craving Greek. Anyone wants Greek?"

"Mom."

"Gigi, no."

"What?" Goldie smiled obliviously. She turned her phone around for them to see the late night specials. "If they can't make it in ten minutes, it's free."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What I wanted to achieve was to make something funny, to fit the show's humor, and I don't know if I've succeeded. I'm glad I waited to post this chapter. Goldie, originally, didn't have that final line, and it really adds the needed flavor after everything happened.


	7. Green With Love (And Luck and Other Things Too)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter. It's been fun, everyone, and thank you.

Storkules escaped out of the front door, determined to leave the mansion and everything associated with it behind, but the closed gates halted him. Another god wouldn't have hesitated to apply their abilities into morphing the iron bars to their liking. He'd admit the idea was tempting - far more than he liked to think, but the potential guilt was too much for him to endure right now. 

He didn't make a scene, and he didn't seek to destroy. He crouched on the fountain edge, legs parted as his heavy head slunk down. Gold coins clinked, shimmered beneath him; the soft sounds grabbed his attention. He turned, clasping a single coin between his index finger and thumb. Its shine was silver, not gold, and his thumb traced the carved design. "Hera," he whispered, without disdain or glory. He tossed the coin back into the pool. Queen of the gods and goddess of family, no, he refused to send a prayer to her. 

Instead, he weighed the options available. Selene was a comfort, but as much as he loved his sisters, matters of the mortal heart were foreign, confusing to her. She was oblivious to their conflict and turmoil. Father wasn't an option for reasons he preferred not to contemplate. For all his obliviousness, Strokules wasn't a complete idiot. 

"You'd know what to do," he lamented. "Laomnene." It seemed like it was yesterday when they'd spend their days as siblings often did. Playing. Singing. Riding mighty Minotaurs. There wasn't a certainty that she'd understand his or grasp the magnitude of his dilemma, but that wasn't important. Compassion, respect, that was what was his heart craved, and she'd give both freely. Iphicles would provide logic; stone, cold but encouraging logic. His rational mind didn't cloud his tender heart. He was the clever and witty but gentle in ways no one else could compare. The head of their two sided coin. Laomnene - fire, impulse, and luck; she'd laugh and slap him on the back, reminding him that though the loss was significant, yes, it was not so significant to mourn it eternally.

"You are immortal, Storkules," she'd murmur, doing her best not to recoil at the sight of snot. She'd shift near him, arms embracing his arm. "Will this be your end?"

He'd quake in her arms, closing his eyes against tears. "No," he'd swallow another sob. "It won't."

She'd hum approvingly. "I see," she wiped the trails of tears on each cheek. "Cry your tears, then let them dry as you move on." She'd kiss his cheeks, drying the last bit of salty water. "There's nothing left to do here, Little Stork." As she smiled, her curly, blond hair - like his, like Mother's - would tickle his cheeks and neck.

Hera's vigil was doused in pale moonlight. Its smaller, golden sister sparkled near.

“It did not kill me,” he announced, softly. “I will carry on.”

He continued to cry. He heaved the last of his tears, gentle goblets streaming down his cheeks. His intention wasn't to lose control of his emotions near the front steps, but the opportunity was there. He'd wait, just for a moment, until he could compose himself. He'd call Hermes - yes, he was fastest of all - for a ride back to his apartment. It was better this way.

“Storkules?”

He quivered a sob. It dangled on the edge of his beak. His shoulders locked in position, embarrassed at his emotional display, but he didn't wipe his eyes. Lamonene wasn't there to do it for him. Leave them as they were, he was always an open man, but Donald didn't leave as anticipated. He paused uncertainly, scuffing his feet as he perched beside him.

The night's master was quiet, though sounds of chatter and building chaos swayed in the mansion. Donald slumped his shoulders, taking a wary chance in Storkules direction. His brow furrowed, he swallowed - unable to come up with a good reason, a valid justification for his reaction. There was none. He gripped the fountain's edge and sighed. All he had left in his arsenal was the truth, the truth he'd buried deep in his heart. He tightened his grip, mustered what remained of his courage, and spoke.

“I’ve been a bad friend.”

“You have.”

“I’m…,” he paused, searching for the right word. “I’m afraid.”

Storkules beheld him, tears mostly dried. “I know.” He offered his hand, a gesture Donald hadn't seen in years but gladly received. He laid his weary head on his lap and expelled his anxieties as Storkules caressed his head.

“I don’t deserve you,” he murmured.

“I don’t think that’s completely true, Donald,” Storkules said with a chuckle. “You have not deserved me in the past ten years and several months, but that is the simple consequence of growing up. I was not ready to meet you then, and you were not ready to receive me.”

He was a remarkable man - so dense and yet, so wise, but at the end of the day, Storkules had lived multiple lives. Many lives not written in history. Donald didn't think about that. "How about now," he inquired softly, "are you ready to receive me?"

Storkules tossed his head back, laughing so deeply and throaty that the ground beneath their feet rumbled in joy. "Always, my Donald," he lowered his head carefully, beak pressing a kiss on his temple. "I am willing to wait for as long as you require."

“But it doesn’t mean I get to treat you that way.”

“No,” he hummed, “no, it doesn’t.” He did not need to warn Donald. Warning was not necessary in their language, but the implication was clear. Donald rolled onto his back, dangling one foot over the edge. He thought of what he planned to do and how he was going to go about doing it.

“I need to call my Grandma,” he continued, frown deepening. “She was hurt, and I didn’t know. No one thought to tell me. I didn’t think to call.”

“Elvira?” Storkules brow rose. “Ah yes, Gladstone mentioned such a thing,” he caressed Donald’s forehead, “he claims she is in good health.”

They knew it was more than that. For once, Donald was not going to evade or hide from an uncomfortable truth. “I should call Abner,” he confessed. “Fethry said he did fine in the invasion,” he chuckled, “doesn’t surprise me. Abner’s...something else.” His brow furrowed deeper, “And so is Fethry.”

“Ah yes,” Storkules brightened. “He is a good man.”

“He is.” Gladstone’s words rang hollowly in his head, reminding him of his own failures. “I need to fix that too.” His cousin was different. This did not mean said differences warranted ridicule and dismissal, especially from family.

Storkules looked to the stars. “I believe this was a good place to start,” he smiled. “I've missed you.”

Donald, for the first time in ten years, returned his smile wholeheartedly. He grabbed Storkules large hand and kissed his knuckles, beak lingering above the feathers. “And I’ve missed you, Stork,” he confessed. 

Their beaks inched closer and closer to each other, intent apparent when a voice broke their concentrated.

"Yo, get outta the way," someone shouted at the front door.

Startled out of the moment, Donald jumped right into Storkules' beak. "Ouch," he hissed, instantly covering his wounded eye with his hand. "What's the big idea?"

“Oh, Donald -,”

But his concern, like Donald’s, turned to the front door where Thelma stood, surrounded by her brothers. She waved her arm at them hurriedly. “Like, you should really move.”

Storkules blink. “Is she waving her arm in her other arm.”

Donald groaned. “I’ve told her about taking that prosthetic off,” he swung his legs over the edge, sitting up. "Put that thing down, young lady. Don't you know how much that costs?"

She wasn't alone on the front step. The children rushed out, wearing expressions of surprise and fright. Huey pointed to the sky. “Get out of the way,” he shouted right as the others came clamoring after them. Della’s face was the first to arrive, and she too wore a similar expression.

“Car.”

“Car?”

Donald and Storkules followed the line of direction and saw what they thought was a shooting star, crossing over the night sky.

“Wait,” Donald paused. “Why isn’t it disappearing?” Shooting stars were temporary sights, not something that continued downward, as if about to land. 

“Donald,” Storkules said, understanding the intention behind their family’s initial warning, “I think you should move.”

“Yeah, I should.”

He scurried away from the gold coin fountain and towards the front door where the rest of the family, aside from Scrooge and Goldie, had congregated at. What careened at them wasn’t a shooting star. It wasn’t even an airplane.

A car.

It was a car.

The family screamed in shock, running out of the house and from the crash area. The car’s impact would not been kind or gentle to the front lawn. It wasn’t like Launchpad was at the steering wheel.

Donald quickly realized he was made of flesh and bone, easily breakable flesh and bone. He preferred to remain ignorant of what it'd feel, taste, sound, and look to fall under a car crash site. Ultimately, the decision was taken out of his hands. When provoked, Storkules' speed drew upon Hermes' skill, but he didn't need to be fast for this. He looked behind him, searching for the car’s shadow, and after making a quick, shaky estimate, he stepped back seven spaces. He opened his arms, ready in a catching position. He braced for impact.

The impact came. Harsh. Hard. So much that he was pushed back several feet, gritting his teeth as he forced his momentum forward. He didn’t want to think what Mr. McDuck would make him pay for the damages done to his home. There were no damages. His heel stopped right in front of the garden bed outlining the house, leaves brushing against his feathers. He held the car in his arms with the same care he provided his beloved Pegasus, staring into the tinted windshield, confusion drawing near as he pieced together the faces sitting in the front seat.

*****

Surprised colored his face. He leaned forward, questioning his vision. “By Athena’s Arrow,” he whispered, shocked more than anything else. “It cannot be.” He squinted, “Tyson? Mark?”

In response, someone rolled the back windows down. A handsome head popped, “Stor-ku-les!” He patted another person to the right, and another head popped out. “Storkules!”

“Marlon?” He turned to the right. “Linda?”

He set the car back on land where the doors were lifted up. Three models unbuckled their seats, dashing out of the car and into Storkules’ surprised arms. 

“Oh, Storkules,” Mark wept. “We didn’t know where you were.”

Tyson patted his lower back. “You didn’t answer your phone,” he sighed. “We wanted you to come with us to Spoonerville. We were searching for property.”

“Property?”

“Yah, they were looking into investing in real estate,” said Linda in the back. She grunted, climbing over Marlon and pushing his head aside. “I’d just flown in.”

“Linda?” Gladstone pushed through the crowd. His brow furrowed, unable to hide his incredulity. “What are you doing here?”

At the sound of his voice, Linda tried to weasel back into the car, but she couldn’t at the angle she was leaning at. “Hey Gladstone, Dickie, Opal, Della, Donald, Storkules,” she counted each head, “seems like a full house tonight.”

Gladstone folded his arms, knowing a diversion when he saw one. Storkules placed the car on the ground gently, and they scrambled out, clutching their chests. Their fear turned to elation at the sight of their beloved roommate, and they ran to him, arms open. He didn’t hesitate. He scooped them up in a gentle hug, lifting them off the ground. Linda walked around the car, leaning on the back of the car, expression smug.

Although she hadn’t been present for the disaster that unfolded, she sensed a shift in the air. Something had changed, possibly for the worst, possibly for the better. Hard to tell in the cool, night air, but Donald, though concerned for the car and the people inside, was calm and collected. His feathers were a normal, healthy white color, and as the models stepped back, giving Storkules room to breathe, he walked towards them, arms crossed - scowl clear.

“What were you looking for real estate property for,” Storkules questioned, more confused than agitated.

Marlon clicked his tongue. “We wanted to broaden our renting properties,” he explained, “so we sought Peg O’ My Heart Realty.”

“A wonderful real estate agent, one of the very best,” Mark interjected. “She's smart, compassionate, - ”

“And you'll never need a siren when she's around," Linda smirked.

“Linda, hush,” Mark scolded. “Anyway, we were looking at a house her husband was renovating.”

Donald rolled his eyes. “Oh boy,” he mumbled. “That guy.”

"You've met him?" Tyson stepped in, "He's extremely nice. A little goofy, but he's okay." He returned to Storkules, "The ink was drying on the papers when something went off in the apartment, and we were blown sky high.”

Gladstone glared at Linda. “Where did you come in?”

She shrugged. “I dropped in.” She paused, “Literally, I dropped in on a parachute right before the explosion. Told them I needed a lift to Duckburg. They were nice enough to give me a ride, and that was when the apartment exploded.”

“Yes, the apartment exploded,” Tyson recounted bleakly. An empty, haunted glaze overcame his gorgeous face. “All I can remember is the sound of his screams as we were propelled across city lines, aaahooey.”

Linda beak twisted thoughtfully. “No, I think it was more of a yaaaaa-hoo-hoo-hooey.”

“No, no,” Mark frowned. “It was a yaaaaaaa-hoo-hoo-hoo-hooey!"

“Yeah,” they agreed, nodding. “That sounds better. He made a sound like that.”

As they discussed subject matters that weren’t wholly important, Donald tapped his foot rapidly. His cleared his throat loudly, gathering their attention. Five heads turned to him, along with the others in the back. 

“What’s going on here?”

“Oh!” Storkules jumped, trotting to him. He placed his hands lightly on Donald’s shoulder and beamed at his roommates. “This is my,” he paused, checking for Donald’s expression and grinned when he nodded, “partner, Donald Duck.”

“So this is the Donald?”

“The Donald Duck? Storkules has spoken about you.”

“And where’s this Della?”

But before they could wrap him in a tight embrace, Donald raised his hands. He knew where this was going to go and normally, wouldn’t have been in a position to stop it. But there were more important things to discuss, most of them out of his family’s view. 

“Wanna stay for dinner,” he offered, gesturing to the mansion. “My Uncle Scrooge is paying for everything.”

“Scrooge McDuck,” the three men gasped. Linda rolled her eyes in the back. “Is the man as stingy as he’s portrayed as on FNL,” Mark whispered.

“No,” Donald grinned. “He’s worse.”

As their screams devolved into animated conversation, the family returned to the mansion. The children clamored near the supermodels, pestering them with question after question, each more curious than the last. But it was Webby who dared to scale Tyson, finding a perch on his shoulders, and the man laughed, admitting this was the most fun he had in years. 

As for Donald and Storkules? One hand found the other, and they walked at an easy pace inside, more relieved with themselves and each other than they had been in over a decade. Della hurrahed in front of them, fist pumping as she announced Opal owed her ten bucks.

“You said they’d make up before dinner,” she clarified, frowning at the possibility she’d lose the gamble she was positive she’d win. “My bet was after dinner.”

Della frowned, shoulders hunched. “We haven’t had dinner! After Scrooge and Goldie -,”

“I bet during dinner.”

Della and Opal stopped in their tracks, measuring Fethry’s bright yet oblivious smile. Or was it completely oblivious? They couldn’t tell. With a quick side glance, she exhaled her disappointed and dug into their pockets. 

“Guess, it’s technically dinner time,” Della grumbled. When she looked to her side, she saw Opal arm crossed and scowling. “Opal, come on.”

“Dinner hasn’t started,” she insisted, gesturing to the door. They were given the chance to eat when Storkules fled the room, and by the time Mrs. Beakley and Duckworth presented dinner, they had crammed themselves to the window to watch. Even Scrooge and Goldie, ignorant to what imploded prior to their arrival, peaked at the corners, whispering to each other questions no one seemed to answered.

Della groaned. “Fine, Opal,” she curled a fist around her ten dollar bill. “If Fethry’s wrong, that makes me right, since they reconciled before dinner started. Do you really want to lose to -,”

“Here you go, Fethry,” Opal thrust a crinkled ten dollar bill into Fethry’s hand. “I’m hungry, let's eat.” She disappeared into the mansion and said nothing else, though the pair noted her dry, disgruntled tone. 

So, with everyone inside, comfortable and warm, Gladstone and Linda waited outside. 

“So…,” she trailed off.

“France?”

She chuckled, scuffing her shoe on chunks of dirt that had rolled away from the car tires. “Yeah, Grandpa and I were busy running an errand for Grandma,” she explained, a certain lightness had overtaken her voice in a way Gladstone had never known it could. “I’m serious, he’s my grandpa...on my mom’s side, more like great-grandpa.”

Gladstone twisted his beak, skepticism thick, and she opened her mouth to release a breath that came out as a laugh. She shrugged, raising her hands helplessly. “Come on,” she protested, “is it that hard to believe?”

“He’d have to be like over a hundred years old?”

She fixed him with a stare.

He opened his mouth, closed it, and nodded. “Fair enough.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, “What about your grandma? She’s alright?”

“Oh yeah, she’s fine. Gonna drop off her load,” she pointed to her backpack, “when I get back to Dawson.”

Gladstone realized in that moment, he could’ve spent all day looking at her. Looking at the softness of her features, the quiet stillness of her chest. She was relaxed in ways he thought impossible for her to relax - for despite her laziness, she worked an unusual job for an unusual employer. He couldn’t imagine putting forth an inch of actual work; the chance he’d lose his precious luck wasn’t a chance he was willing to take. 

He liked this. He liked the differences he found. Laziness traded for hard earned exhaustion. Hardness softened into tenderness. For whatever reason, most likely the errand she ran for her grandmother, she substituted her lavender shirt and black pants for a deep magenta blouse and dark denim jeans, an outfit perfectly suited for her figure. Her soft, earthy brown eyes transformed into a smooth, emerald cut green.

“Hold on,” he stopped her. “What happened to your eyes?”

“What?”

He pointed to his eyes. “Your eyes,” he repeated. “They’re green. Your eyes are brown.”

She stared at him with what he perceived was confusion but was more aligned disbelief. “I’m surprised you’re observant enough to notice the color of my eyes,” she replied, staring him up and down to make sure she was speaking to the same gander.

“I notice everything about you,” he replied, without a flirtatious or derisive joke. Realizing what he said and what it could mean, he looked away, straightening his jacket as he cleared his throat in distraction. “I mean, most people would notice a thing like that.”

Linda was silent. She looked down, hoping to hide the faint pink of her cheeks, almost indiscernible under her brown feathers. She soon turned to the city lights ahead. “I’m wearing clear contacts,” she explained. “I forgot my colored ones back at Dawson.”

“But green eyes?”

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I know,” she confessed. “Green eyes on a black duck? Scandalous. On my dad’s side. His mom and her mom were blonde, green eyed American Pekins.”

“Your hair is real?” He kept his arms and hands fastened under each other, resisting the urge to motion to his own head, or worse, hers.

“Yeah,” she smiled crookedly. “Dad explained Mom’s family must’ve had a few blondes down the family tree, but the mutation was black and blonde ombre style.” She shrugged, “Who knew?”

“Thank you for the biology lesson.”

“No problem.”

A comfortable quietness developed between them, for it couldn’t be quiet around McDuck Manor, not anymore. Gladstone rolled on his heels, burying his awkwardness beneath the car behind him. He realized he hadn’t put much thought of what he’d do if their mission was a success, and now, he found himself wondering where he was going to go now. He glanced at Linda, whose attention was locked on the fountain, and decided he’d test new waters. “Wanna stay for dinner?”

She whirled at him, braid almost slapping them both in the face. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” she answered slowly. “Goldie’s gonna want me back at the hotel.”

“After the night she’s had,” he grinned mischievously, “I doubt it.” He nudged her softly in the ribs. “Come on, we’ve got the three top supermodels in the world eating at my uncle’s table.”

Linda regarded his hand carrying emotions he was afraid to touch. It seemed like, on the surface, a splendid invitation - an invitation only a prideful fool would reject. Maybe, a part of her was more pride than lazy, but she sighed, shaking her head and walked ahead. She shifted her backpack straps, not stopping as she called out to him.

“Gladstone, I don’t plan walking in there without an escort,” she shouted, pausing briefly on front step. He didn’t wait to close the gap. He didn’t touch her. She didn’t ask him to, but it was nice walking side by side, entering what they deemed a fray of trouble and catastrophe. As the night deepened and their appetites sated, Gladstone watched everyone’s favorite couple sit next to each other, without incident and sheepish smiles. 

“I think it was worth it,” Storkules whispered beside him.

“What?”

“Donald may be a lot of trouble, but you knew he was worth it,” he laid a gentle hand on his back and put forth all his gratitude into his smile. “Thank you, Gladstone.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. Family...or Donald...hadn’t been worth it in the past. Their worlds too different. Their personalities too contrary. But maybe, just maybe, Storkules was onto something. Fethry seemed happy, more than happy now that Donald was showing some interest in his goings. 

“Minnie’s Bowtique works on giant krill,” Gladstone whispered back. “I need to tell Fethry.”

“He’ll love it.”

As the night deepened and their appetites sated, someone else realized a similar theme in regards to family. Linda threw her fork down on her plate, tugging on Dickie’s sleeve.

“Please, don’t tell me you went into my room,” Linda groaned, mouth half full of bread and asparagus. “Dickie, did she go into my room?”

Goldie sipped her wine. “I needed something cheap. I can’t wear my good bras on interdimensional travel.”

“Keep it, Gigi,” Linda snapped, grabbing her wine bottle and downing it in an instant. “This will be the last time I go on a run for you.” Dickie patted her back comfortingly as their argument died under everyone’s enjoyment.

Gladstone smirked on the other side of the table, a smirk she quickly caught sight of. “Lin,” he raised his fork teasingly, “let it go, family’s worth it.”

With a pout and eyeroll, Gladstone knew she agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FNL - Friday Night Live.
> 
> Peg O' My Heart Realty - Peg Pete's Real Estate Agency, as mentioned in Goof Troop.
> 
> There is another Goof Troop/Goofy reference that's far more obscure in Chapter 6. Penny Pooch was one of Minnie's friends in a toy line. 
> 
> It is done. Complete. I'm proud of myself. A lot of fun to write, a lot of fun to play in.

**Author's Note:**

> Neopuff's tags on a crackship post fueled this story. It kind of spiraled out of control from there. Good thing, I know exactly how many chapters and how long this story is going to go. I'm about more than halfway. Hopefully, no unexpected pauses and stuff like that.
> 
> It is not beta-d. Any feedback is appreciated, deeply appreciated.


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